The apples have begun

their quiet surrender.

No drama–

just a loosening of grip,

a grave negotiation.

I walk between the rows

hearing the language of near-dying:

leaves repeating their loss,

branches relieved

of the burden of abundance.

Some fruit split open

without ceremony,

giving back the good sweetness to the earth.

I used to think survival

meant holding on.

But the orchard shows otherwise–

that release is not loss,

that ripeness carries

its own permission to depart.

Tonight the air smells

like sugar and distance.

Somewhere beyond the hills

winter is rehearsing his arrival.

Nevertheless, the trees will not be afraid,

masters of letting go.